


Good Enough to Eat

by p1013



Series: The Bum Universe [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Drarry In The Dark, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Himbo Harry Potter, M/M, Ministry of Magic Employee Draco Malfoy, Multilingual Character, POV Draco Malfoy, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:02:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29475168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: "Such a shame," Draco says as he stares across the lunchroom again while Potter tries to return his lunch tray to the cleaning rack. "I really should have less interest in intelligence when it comes to my men."---Wherein Harry is a himbo and Draco is a mess.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: The Bum Universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2113086
Comments: 59
Kudos: 258





	Good Enough to Eat

Draco sighs, not for the first time, and stares across the crowded Ministry dining hall.

"You're pathetic," Pansy says before sitting down next to him, her lunch tray laden with a sandwich and chips. "Honestly, Draco, the last time I saw you looking like this it was, oh, let me think? Literally our entire time at Hogwarts."

He glares at her for a moment, then his eyes drift back to where they were. "Shut up, darling. You've no idea what you're talking about."

"Right. So you're not gazing with longing at one Harry James Potter, Senior Auror and Ministry Golden Boy?"

"I am not doing anything _with longing_." Another sigh. "It's just… He's such a Himbo, I can't take it."

"What in the world is a Himbo?"

Draco sniffs. "It's not my fault you're not up-to-date with Muggle mythology."

"You've been in the Muggle Outreach department for three months, and now you're the resident expert." Pansy rolls her eyes and waves a loaded fork at Draco. "Now, Professor, tell me what a Himbo is."

"A Himbo," Draco says with confidence, "is similar to a Harpie. They're only male, and they're possessed of spectacular physical stamina and beauty. The most famous of them is one called Fabio, who became an icon for Muggle literature during the 1980's and started the restoration of the Himbo species. They're much more common these days, even considered no longer endangered by some experts. But," he gives her a pointed look, "there is one particular downside to them. While they are physically perfect specimens of male beauty and generally kind and docile, they are, without exception, complete and utter morons."

Pansy takes a bite of food and chews thoughtfully. After swallowing, she nods. "You're right. He's a complete Himbo."

"Such a shame," Draco says as he stares across the lunchroom again while Potter tries to return his lunch tray to the cleaning rack. "I really should have less interest in intelligence when it comes to my men."

"Right, and that's why you go to that place off Diagon."

"We do not discuss the place off Diagon at work, Parkison." Draco steals a chip from her plate. "And no, I will not tell you where it is."

"Oh, come _on_ , Draco. I've been asking for months." She pouts. "It's nearly my birthday."

"But not yet." When he goes to steal another chip, she slaps his hand away. Shaking it until the sting subsides, he frowns. "And anyway, I'm concerned about the quality of clientele they've been letting in lately. My last visit started off entirely out of the usual."

"You've mentioned. _Multiple_ times."

"Oh, hush. You're just jealous you're not getting laid."

"By strangers. In a seedy establishment somewhere near Diagon Alley. Past Fortescue's, yes?"

He gives her a deadpan look. "Pansy. I'm not telling you until your birthday. Stop trying to sneak it out of me."

"The worst. You are absolutely the worst."

"Would it make you feel better if I let you wax philosophical about what things Ginevra Weasley would like to do or have done to her in bed?"

"It is my favourite topic." She points at him with a chip. "And you had your turn talking about Potter yesterday."

Clearly defeated, he gestures for her to begin. "It's only fair."

As Pansy starts a well-worn conversation, Draco searches for Potter one more time. He's nearly out of the lunch room, his broad shoulders and trim waist easily recognizable even across the wide, busy space. If it wouldn't give it away what Draco was doing to Pansy, he'd sigh again. Such a pity that the last man to fuck Draco hadn't been anything like Potter. No, that man knew exactly what to do when presented with something as glorious as Draco Malfoy's arse.

And though Draco has done his absolute best to make sure to put his best features on display, it seems as though Potter is not only a Himbo, but a blind one at that.

Such a shame.

* * *

A few days later while Draco is continuing his research into the Himbo conservation effort, Potter arrives at Draco's door as if called there by the constant thoughts of washboard abs and trembling biceps.

"Malfoy," he says as he leans against the doorframe, his dress shirt straining across his pecs and shoulders, "what're you doing tonight?"

Still a bit distracted trying to figure out who makes Potter's clothes since they clearly sew seams made of steel, Draco stumbles over the question. "What am I… What?"

"What're you doing tonight?" Potter repeats. "I'm running reconnaissance tonight, and I need someone who's familiar with Muggles and authorized as a consultant for the Auror Department. Normally I'd ask Finch-Fletchley, but he's running an op in France at the moment, and Lavender's out sick. I checked the duty roster, and you're the last person on the list."

Draco's brief excitement viciously extinguished, he glares. "I'll have you know that I'm a very busy wizard with a very fully social calendar."

"Which is why I checked with Parkinson first. She said you were free."

"Of course she did." Draco's already running through the list of tortures he's going to use against her later. "Then I guess you can consider yourself lucky, Potter, as I do happen to be free this evening."

"Brilliant." Potter holds a folder out to Draco. "Here, this has all of the details of the op tonight. Where to meet, what to wear, who and what we're looking for. It's a bit posh, so if you need to leave early to get dressed up, I've already cleared it with your department head. I'll meet you there around 8 PM, if that's alright with you?"

"Since I have to assume there's an expected window of time wherein the illicit activity will commence or the nefarious evil-doer will be present, I don't see as I have much of a choice. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a bit of research I need to finish before I leave for the day."

"Ah, sorry for interrupting. Is it anything interesting?"

Draco glances down at his computer screen—the department insists they use Muggle technology in order to better understand their subjects, and since Draco found Google Image Search, he's had no complaints—and the picture of Chris Hemsworth in board shorts filling it, and nods sagely. "Very interesting, though highly specialized. I'm certain you'd have no interest."

"Ah, too bad then. Maybe tell me about it tonight?"

"I will consider it. Now shoo, Potter. I've got work to do."

"Of course." He smiles, his eyes bright and warm. "See you tonight, Malfoy. Thanks again."

"My mandatory attendance is rather a hardship," Draco says, but Potter is already out the door and down the hallway. Sighing, Draco goes back to his research, bookmarking one particularly promising video for later tonight when he's at home, slightly tipsy, and likely frustrated after sitting across from Potter at a posh restaurant neither of them wanted to patronize. Nothing better than a slightly off-tempo, bitter wank to end the day.

Ugh.

* * *

Posh feels like a rather low-class word for the restaurant. _Le Petite Agneau_ looks like someone took a high-end decorating magazine, threw some Michelin Stars at it, and then coated everything in a layer of gold leaf. Even the maître d' looks like he's been dipped in gold, his blond hair gleaming and his spectacularly starched and pressed uniform decorated with tiny metallic threads woven through the white. His smile is just as blinding, and Draco blinks at him dumbly as he approaches.

"Good evening, sir," he says, his gloved hands held together in front of him. "May I have your name, please?"

Draco shakes the surprise from his mind and puts on the comfortable role of spoiled rich brat. "Malfoy. I've a reservation."

"Yes, of course. One moment, please."

The man walks over to a white marble stand, looks down at it for not nearly enough time to read anything, then comes back to where Draco's waiting, that placid, perfect smile still on his face.

"I'm so sorry, sir, but I don't see your name on our list, and I'm afraid we don't have any openings available tonight. I could make a reservation for you for the next available date?"

"And when is that?" Draco asks in his most haughty tone of voice.

It does nothing to the maître d'. "That would be next April, sir."

"Of course." Draco looks around discreetly, hoping to see Potter's familiar shaggy hair somewhere in the tastefully crowded dining room but is disappointed when he doesn't see anyone even slightly resembling the prat. Draco should have known better. "I will see myself out, then. Thank you."

The maître d' is bowing his head when a voice breaks out over the quiet din of polite conversation and clinking porcelain.

"Malfoy!" Potter steps through the doors, his black greatcoat billowing about his chest and legs in a truly heroic display. He smiles sheepishly at Draco, then runs a hand through his curls. It pulls his white jumper tight across the expanse of his chest, and though the fabric is thick and heavily cabled, it still somehow defines his muscles in a way that has Draco feeling completely liquid. 

He's suddenly, painfully, aware of how bad an idea this was.

"Mr Potter," the maître d' says as Potter comes to stand next to Draco. "Your table is ready, if you'd just come with me."

When Potter goes to follow after the shining man, Draco hesitates. It makes Potter frown, then reach for Draco's hand. "C'mon, Malfoy," he says, pulling gently on Draco's fingers before letting them drop. "Let's get a seat. I've heard the food's fantastic."

Draco, unable to resist that small pull of Potter's skin on his own, falls in step behind him.

The maître d' shows them to what is likely the best table in the house, then offers them both menus. Draco isn't entirely sure when the man picked them up or if he was hiding them somewhere in his jacket, but as he handles the thick cardstock, he's again impressed by the quality of the restaurant. As he starts looking through the offerings for the evening, an eyebrow raises without his consent.

"This is a _very_ nice restaurant, Potter," Draco says, setting the menu—and its lack of listed prices—down on the table.

Potter grins at Draco rakishly. "Yeah, I know. You want something to drink, yeah?"

Then he turns to the maître d' and, without blinking, starts speaking in easy, fluent French.

Draco's cock goes from bored and limp to painfully at attention before the first lilting syllable falls from Potter's lips.

" _We'll have a bottle of the Château Lafite Rothschild, the 1998 if you have it, but if you don't, the 2000 will do. And when you bring out the main dish, we'll have a bottle of the 1999 Domaine d'Auvenay Meursault Les Narvaux._ "

" _Excellent choice, sir,_ " the maître d' replies, also in French. " _Is there anything else I can get you?_ "

Potter turns to Draco. "Do you want some water or something?"

"I… do I… Uh."

" _Sparkling, with lemon. Thank you_."

" _Of course, sir_."

The maître d' bows, then leaves. Draco does his best to not gape at Potter.

Or crawl across the table and debauch him.

Thoroughly.

"You speak French," is what he manages, though it comes out nowhere near a question and more a husky, shocked pronouncement.

"Oh yeah." Potter looks down at the menu, completely unaffected by Draco's words. "They offered a course in foreign languages as part of Auror training, and I decided to give it a try."

"You speak French."

Potter's head lifts, brow furrowed. "Yeah, and German and a bit of Russian, though my accent's shite. I've been working on Spanish here and there, but we don't have much need of it right now, so." He shrugs and goes back to reading.

Draco is going to come in his trousers in the middle of the fanciest restaurant he's ever been in because Potter is a polyglot. He wonders, almost sick with desire, what filthy things the man would say in each language and how far his vocabulary stretches.

"You saw our target when we walked in, yeah?" Potter says, still not looking up from his menu. "Sitting near the door, back to us currently if you want to look."

Draco does as he's told, catches a glimpse of the woman they're trailing, then immediately turns back to Potter.

"You've got eyes on her, then," Draco says, hoping their waiter will arrive soon with the wine. He desperately needs the wine. "Shall I keep you riveted with conversation while you surreptitiously surveil her?"

"That is the plan." Potter smiles. "I'll do my best to not get lost in your witty conversation."

Draco laughs. "Good luck. I've been told I'm a thrilling conversationalist."

"Not bad on the eyes either."

Draco swallows his tongue, then chokes on it.

"Ah, here's the wine."

While Draco does his best to not die on the table, Potter waits for the waiter to uncork the bottle, pour a small portion into a glass, and then goes through the motions of tasting the wine. Quick swirl around the glass, sniff, pause, then a tentative sip. He hums happily and nods to the waiter, who finishes filling Potter's glass before filling one for Draco.

Considering the likely price tag on the bottle, Draco drinks his first glass entirely too fast. He gets Potter talking about something related to criminalistics—the blending of Muggle investigative techniques and magic, or something like that—while he does his best to regain any semblance of level footing. It doesn't help that the wine is delicious, rich and thick with hints of smoke, and soft and plush in his mouth. It's flavor lingers on Draco's tongue long after he finishes.

Potter pours him a second drink, and continues talking.

"So once we're able to prove that Muggle techniques, like fingerprinting, can be used in combination with Magical means, then I've got a proposal ready to go for integrating DNA testing into our standard procedures. I already talked to the Muggle Prime Minister, and he's on board with granting the DMLE access to their centralized databases. Combined with what we can already do with Magical traces, I think it will be a revolution in the way that policing is performed in Magical Britain."

"You're quite passionate about it," Draco says, his mind in a lust- and liquor-induced haze. "It sounds like a great idea."

Potter flushes and ducks his head adorably. Draco's brain melts a little more. "Ah, thanks. I've been going on about it for awhile, haven't I? Sorry about that. Why don't you tell me what you've been up to lately? Anything exciting?"

Draco tries not to think about the place off of Diagon, or his last visit, or the way he'd love to go there right now and have someone fuck all of this flame out of his body.

"Not really," he says. Their third course arrives a moment later, and their conversation quiets as they eat.

"You know," Potter says between mouthfuls, "I never expected you to go into Muggle Outreach."

Draco's stomach twists, and he sets his fork down, no longer hungry. "I contain multitudes, Potter. What's our target doing?"

"Talking to her date," Potter says before frowning. "I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?"

"Don't trouble yourself over it, Potter. If you'll excuse me for a moment, I need to use the restroom."

"Yeah, of course. But Malfoy, I didn't—"

Draco stands and pushes his chair back in. His shirt catches on the top, and he feels it pull out from his waistband. Turning awkwardly to uncatch it, he finds he can't quite reach. "Merlin, of course."

"Here, let me help," Potter says as he stands, and Draco desperately wants to get himself uncaught before Potter can do anything of the sort. "Stop wiggling, Malfoy, it'll be just a moment."

Potter's hand is warm and gentle on Draco's back, his fingertips brushing against Draco's skin for just an instant. It sends heat pouring through Draco's body, and his muscles tense as he fights the urge to inhale sharply at the touch.

"There," Potter says, though his voice is quiet, possibly stunned. "You have a tattoo."

Draco whirls away from Potter, his hands shaking as he tucks his shirt back into his trousers. "Yes. Now, if you'll excuse me, Potter."

He hurries to the restroom, unaware that Harry doesn't sit, just stares after Draco and the flash of snakeskin and peonies along his lower back.

**Author's Note:**

> I always have to find a way to put a twist on things, don't I? Whatever will happen next!


End file.
